


When The Circus Comes To Town...

by NikkiJustTalk



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Circus, Circus!fic!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikkiJustTalk/pseuds/NikkiJustTalk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two circus' in Albion, did you know? They're practically right on top of each other. One has tents and turrets of soft-spun gold. They call it Camelot, and the Ringleader is money itself. The other lies in the land beside it, in Ealdor. The tent is shabby blue, and patchwork ribbons tumble from it's lone turret. The canvas is held to the ground by wooden pegs, and the entrance is paved with mud. People also say, or rather giggle, that the two ringleaders of these rival circus's detest one another, and would gladly see the other one fired. Whilst the rich man envies the poor man's talent, the poor man envies the rich man's wealth. The rich man also hates the poor man's laziness. The poor man hates the rich man's arrogance. But has hate dissolved into something else?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Circus Comes To Town...

There are two circus' in Albion, did you know? They're practically right on top of each other. One has tents and turrets of soft-spun gold. The grass underfoot sparkles green, and the costumes glitter red, gold, and silver in the sunlight. Each seat inside the tall circus tent is a rich red, and the stage is polished wood. It's beautiful. Everything gleams in Camelot. Right down to the rose red noses on the clowns, and black buttons on the peanut-boy's jacket.   
Everyone goes to Camelot.   
They go for the glitter, and the luxurious seats, and the money that seems to be moulded into every beam and bar in the place. They go for the sparkling white teeth of the gymnasts, and the velvet waistcoats wrapped around the chests of the darling little monkeys that leap from fur trimmed shoulder to fur trimmed shoulder. They go for the starched collar and top hat of the ring leader, for his blue eyes and gold hair, and his diamond encrusted smile. They say that he is money itself, that he walks on clouds of coins, and that he is brilliant.   
They say that he is the second wealthiest man in the world, coming second only to his father, the retired ring leader who seems to spend the entirety of his life looking down his sharply beaked nose at his son during every single show. They say that Camelot Circus is beautiful in itself, in its land and it's performers. But people don't go to the circus to see beauty, do they?  
The other circus lies in the land beside it, in Ealdor. The tent is shabby blue, and patchwork ribbons tumble from it's lone turret. The canvas is held to the ground by wooden pegs, and the entrance is paved with mud. The benches inside are wooden too, and people are often found pulling splinters out of hands and backsides as they stumble out of the tent after the show. The stage is glossed black, and the curtains are grey and dusty. There are rats that dart in and out of the chips in the stage.   
Yet, everyone goes to Ealdor too. They go for what happens on the stage, for what happens when they sit down in the darkness and the silver smoke starts to billow out from between the curtains, lighting ever candle wick it touches. They go for the fire-lions that prowl down the aisle and leap gracefully up onto the stage, roaring proudly at their audience. They go for the indoor fireworks that burst from under gentlemen's top hats, and from the depths of ladies bags. They go for the human spinning tops that turn into golden ribbons as they twirl in mid-air. They go for the dancing dew drops that drop from the rafters and splash pink, green and blue when they burst onto the ground. They go for the tiny silver fish that spiral like thread around the ringleader's patchwork brown top hat.  
They go for the ringleader's charming smile, and his awestruck eyes when they fall upon his own creations. They go for his endearing large ears, and his clumsy fingers as they sketch faces of the audience out of sparks. They say that he is the most powerful sorcerer in the world, that he is magic, that he has no blood, only golden rivulets of power running through his veins. They say that he is kind, and poor, and brilliant. They say that his shows are like watching dreams, but in uncomfortable seats, and a drafty tent. But rich people don't go to the circus to be uncomfortable, do they?  
People also say, or rather giggle, that the two ringleaders of these rival circus's detest one another, and would gladly see the other one fired. Whilst the rich man envies the poor man's talent, the poor man envies the rich man's wealth. The rich man also hates the poor man's laziness. The poor man hates the rich man's arrogance. Both had grown up living and working in their opposing tents, and knew nothing else but hatred for the other, having been taught it from an early age. On one week, the poor man will sneak into the rich man's dressing room and turn all his reflections green.   
On the next, the rich man will release his monkey into the poor man's tent, and simply sit by as it urinates all over the costumes. This will then be followed by an over-the-fence screaming match, ending with both parties declaring vengeance on the other, and two simultaneous rages in the privacy of their tents. This rivalry has been incredibly well publicised.  
People will journey from all over the world, just to see which circus is better, and which side to associate with. Typically those with magic will side with the poor man, whilst those with money will side with the rich man, but occasionally there are those who will simply enjoy both far too much, and watch each show over and over again, declaring undying loyalty to both. These men are typically called the Knights, for their moral maturity and kindness, and will attend both shows once a week.  
But whilst the Knights are religiously unbiased, those who are tend to be even more vicious than the men themselves. On more than one occasion, the rich man will have walked into his father's top box and found him face down unconcious on his desk, his pockets emptied and his monocles cracked. The poor man, on the other hand, is typically seen as a court jester by the rich folk, and is pelted with fruit and rotten eggs upon entering their end of Albion.   
And yet, though this misfortune upon the other is unfair, even by their standards, they will never be found to apologise to the other.  
Though they are treated like unruly school boys by the rest of their troops, their stubbornness can never be broken, and this is the way it has been for many many years. Until yesterday, of course, when they were caught kissing in the back of the rich man's dressing room, arms and hands all over the place, by the rich man's father.  
'Arthur?!' The two men broke apart with a sudden speed. There was a quick reshuffle of clothing and flattening of hair before they both turned to face him. 'Father...' 'Mr Pendragon...' Uther ran a gloved hand over his mouth.  
'Arthur...I don't understa...'  
'Father, listen, I've been meaning to tell you for a while, but I thought with the rivarly between me and Merlin bringing us in so much new business that it was best to just keep quiet, and we weren't going to keep it up forever, just for a while and...'   
'But he's a man.'   
Arthur glanced round at Merlin, as if checking he was,in fact, a man. 'Well yes, but I don't see...'  
'Arthur, he's a man. You...I don't understand. How can I have found you with another man? That's not possible.'  
'Mr Pendragon...'   
'You will be quiet.' His voice had gone dangerously calm. 'You will not speak, unless it is to relieve my son of the enchantment you have obviously set upon him.'  
'Father, I'm not enchanted, I'm just...'  
Just what, Arthur? What are you?' Arthur huffed out a frustrated breath.  
'I'm in love!' Merlin bowed his head with a smile. 'Yes, Father, I'm in love, with a man, whom I hate.'  
'Thanks.'  
'You're welcome'. Uther's hands now tugged at the hair above his ears. 'Arthur you are not in love! You are bespelled! He's a sorcerer, and you're a wealthy man! He is clearly out for your fortunes!'   
Arthur raised an eyebrow. 'My fortunes? Father, Merlin has plenty enough money without needing to steal any of mine. In fact, I think he makes more than we do of an evening, what with the new grass-turtles he's brought in.'   
Uther had sunk down heavily into Arthur's dressing room chair by this point.   
'Father...' Arthur's voice was quieter now. 'Father, if you tell me I have to stop seeing Merlin, I won't. We'll leave Albion if we have to, but I'm not going to stop.'   
There was a long sigh. 'Does...does anyone else know? Here, or at Ealdor?'   
They both shook their heads. 'No, we've told no one.'  
'They all still think we hate each other.'  
'Which we do, of course.'  
'Of course. There's just a little bit more to it now than hate.'  
Uther stood up, and said 'Arthur...make sure you tell Morgana, at least. Before she finds out for herself' before walking out of the room.  
'...Well that went well.'  
'Shut up, Merlin.'


End file.
